


Stroke of Genius

by fluxfiction



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate universe - Mafia, Gen, Humor, Mafia Boss Roy Mustang, Mafia Team Mustang, Roy and Ling are related, Xingese Roy, it makes this funnier, the timeline is pushed about 40 years forwards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-19 08:14:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22907914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluxfiction/pseuds/fluxfiction
Summary: Roy didn'tmeanto become a mafia overlord, just like he didn'tmeanto kidnap Xingese royalty, but that's just life with a cousin who loves misunderstandings, and now he's the most wanted man in the country.In more ways than one.
Relationships: Maes Hughes & Roy Mustang, Roy Mustang & Ling Yao
Comments: 10
Kudos: 48





	Stroke of Genius

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this finished for a while, just haven't gotten around to uploading it.  
> To give you an idea what to expect... the only reason this is set in the mid-1900's is so I can make a joke. Priorities. Yes.
> 
> There's a decent amount of crime and references to crime (compared to your typical Mafia AU?) - just a heads-up.
> 
> Have fun!

Sometimes, Roy woke up wondering what to put in his memoirs. Why? There was no why. It always seemed obvious that Roy Mustang would produce a set of memoirs. He'd always been bright, brilliant, and full of spunk, having decided exactly one month into the age of seven that he would become a kick-ass, sexy, smoking-hot alchemist when he grew up. The sky had aired a double rainbow at sundown, truly a sign that he was fated by something great. He could remember making that decision like it was yesterday. At the time, he'd been in the middle of homework so utterly mind-numbing for someone of his intellect when Sandra returned with a short, ashy man for the night, someone who could make water boil by itself. Someone called a State Alchemist.

She'd asked the usual questions; What do you do? Isn't the certification exam tough? You must be so smart — I don't suppose you could tell me more about your alchemy?

Seven-year-old Roy Mustang went from his ABC's to eavesdropping on the basics, and the rest was history.

He was jolted out of this reverie by a voice. "Chief, don't tell me you've been asleep."

At his work desk, Roy hastily straightened and swiped for drool at his mouth. Luck be with him, it wasn't Riza. "Me, Jean? Sleeping? You must be imagining things." He examined the black clothes his colleague was wearing. "Is this a courtesy visit? Or do you have something for me?"

"Hayate wandered off. He, uh. Might've ended up in the ammo stock."

"The ammo stock?" That didn't sound good.

Havoc nodded, grim. "Yeah. Tomorrow's delivery to the Red Scholars."

"How bad is it?"

"Well, Riza's denying her mutt's guilt all the way to Ishval."

In spite of being terrorists specialising in extortion, the Red Scholars hated delays, just like any normal person paying good money. Roy pinched his brow and calculated his options.

Sometimes, Roy Mustang woke up forgetting he was a mafia boss.

* * *

One of the most common misconceptions Roy encountered in his career as a mafia boss was not the idea that it was inherently glitzy, nor how unglamorous it actually was to brain someone so they would not sell you out, but the fact that people needed a reason to be a disruption to others' wonderful and most satisfactory lives.

Roy lived in a very modest fashion. He didn't go for expensive clothing, and filled his wardrobe with off-brand items which were well-fitted for his body. His questionably obtained money went into other things, like cologne, which were harder to identify in values of cash. On the other hand, in Roy's highly comprehensive and exceedingly well-formulated opinions on pricks, he knew that there were some people in this world who decided to become an ass and those who thought being a brat suited their nature. Others – the special ones?

Those were certainly born that way.

"Cousin Qilin! Listen to me," said Ling Yao, ignoring how Roy was absolutely attempting to ignore him. "Come home, please. You must."

"This is my home."

"Does it matter if you were smuggled from Xing whilst a toddler? We are family, are we not?"

"I have sisters here."

"But you are not related to them by your blood. Come home. The country needs you now."

"Be that as it may, will you give the phone back to father?" Roy asked lightly. "You being the Emperor's son would explain how you don't appear to understand that commoners must _pay_ to make international calls, Prince Ling."

"And you being the child of two commoners is why I would choose not to ask questions, dearest cousin."

"Questions?"

Ling paused, and his tone darkened. "I have heard much about you from those who frequent darker society, cousin mine. Or shall I say, Roy White."

Only one trading partner knew him as that. Roy swallowed around a dry mouth. "Ling... what are you doing, associating with the Red Scholars?"

"Eh? You're with the Red Scholars?" Ling gasped. "Really? It was just a guess. Uncle mentioned you're called by Roy, now, and you don't hear a lot of people called that—"

"It's one of the top two hundred names in Amestris."

"Exactly! So, I thought I would try asking all of them!"

Roy White traded ammunition, created special nitrogen compounds to make designer explosives, and was not a name anyone just _threw around_ , most importantly. The only thing stopping Roy from hanging up was the knowledge that Ling would be just as likely to refuse to take a call if he rang back.

Unbelievable.

Roy cleared his throat. "You clearly have something in mind. What do you want?"

"Me?" Ling hummed. "I'm hearing all these stories about you being a genius. You are, right? So come home soon! I want you to help make me the next Emperor, yes? For us? For _our_ family."

* * *

Just as alchemy could be used for good and for bad, competent alchemists were always in demand. Roy knew this, ever since he discovered that repairing broken glasses could save money for his aunt's bar, or he was requested to mend all his sisters' stockings.

Which meant it logical that his illegal activities also involved going about town in a car ready to transmute some gold.

A law might say that transmuting gold was illegal, but any fool looking at a map with Amestris's penitentiary knew the obvious: not everybody followed the law. For gold to be legal, it needed a credible source. Roy acted as a recycling company for mining waste, and so what if he spiced up a couple of rocks while wandering on site to make inspections? Bury the gold deep enough, be smart enough to create it unrefined, dress up his payment for the transmutation as a regular sum in their invoices, and everything was right as ninepence.

"Roy, sir."

"Yes, Falman?"

"We've stopped."

"Here?" Roy looked around. "We can't stop _here!_ "

"I'm not sure it makes a difference to Manchester, sir."

"It does to me, Falman. We don't break the law... like this. This is a no parking zone."

"I question why that's a problem, sir?"

"We don't give the police a reason to investigate. Now, let's move the car."

Falman did, and Roy stopped being pedantic about little things.

Roy would describe Dirk Van Manchester as a spiritual cousin to Alex Louis Armstrong. Manchester, a man with a shock of black hair over a pale, vampiric face, had plush lips and an ill-fitting suit that made him look like a scarecrow. Armstrong's baby blush and curl belied his ability as one of the greatest structural alchemists of the century. Manchester's staggered asthmatic coughing hid the fact he led a ring of very accomplished frog divers.

As previously discussed, Roy left the car to enter the agreed café, Falman waiting outside as backup in case of issues. Manchester was there already, having chosen a table by the window, the aromatic coffee in front of him steaming faintly.

"White," Manchester greeted as Roy took a seat. He grinned. "Heard your friends struck gold, last week."

"I'm sure you'll do the same," Roy agreed.

Manchester's fingers tapped the table. "We accept your contract, and it would be our pleasure to help you on your... manhunt. There was something we did want to clarify, regarding payment upon recovering the item —"

A third person sat down next to them. "Ooh, an item?"

Very slowly, Roy regretted turning.

"You," said Roy. The black hair and sharp eyes could have belonged to anybody, but that voice — "What are you doing here, Ling?"

Ling's face became delighted. "Qilin! Family!"

"He's yours, is he?" Manchester asked.

"No!" Roy exclaimed. "No – he's, err..."

All of a sudden, Ling had tugged Roy to his feet. Roy's calculating mind was scrambling. His prick of a cousin was _here_ , not across the other side of a desert. Interrupting a business meeting. _Manhandling_ him!

So caught up in this, Roy failed to realise the incriminating position being made of him.

"I'm here to bring you back," whispered Ling.

And then Ling winked.

The loud, distinctive cracking of a gunshot rocketed into the eaves. Screams cut through the air and yells echoed the rocketing of patrons making a dash for the escape. When Ling tumbled to the ground, Roy saw Falman outside struggling to make sense of the shooter's possible locations, and Manchester already disappeared to avoid answering questions at a scene.

Like something from a movie, a bloodied hand gripped Roy at his ankle.

Roy looked.

Ling, bleeding from one arm, simply grinned.

While it was the first incident set up by a cousin trying to drive him back to Xing, it wouldn't be the last to make Roy look like a criminal who kept committing crimes in broad daylight.

But it still took about six weeks before the first wanted posters asked citizens to turn him in.

* * *

The rain was like an asshole spraying a hose from a fountain top.

"A fountain top?" Maes raised his eyebrows. "What are you describing there, Roy? Are you comparing this downpour to butt marks on a kitchen counter? Come on, Roy, you can do better than that."

"We should not have to 'do better than that', Maes."

"Hey, may as well spend this time in the rain doing something useful."

"I can feel a squelch in my socks." Roy deadpanned. "We're waiting for _your_ agent, not fucking Godot."

"Sure." Maes grinned. "How goes your memoirs?"

"I'm trying to decide if Jasmine was ever truly into me, and if I should dedicate a chapter to that."

"Didn't you date her for nine months? Why not?"

"You know how—for some inane reason—I'm a 'conquest'? I discovered that nine months is the current claim to fame."

"Not wanting to be such an eligible bachelor now? Best don't let Havoc hear about that."

"Maes, go back to waiting."

For a minute, there was quiet.

"... Maes?"

"What happened to waiting, Roy?"

"Should we have insisted that Jean join the military again?"

"What brought this on?"

"He could have had another chance."

"And Bradley is the tooth fairy."

"The President _has_ knocked out enough teeth for that."

"... Boss."

"... I know. It was just a whimsical thought."

Maes turned to Roy, his expression serious. "You gave me, and all of us, somewhere to go after the incident that happened. Don't forget. Dogs don't remember the past. They live in the moment. We follow you with no regrets."

A car passed, its headlamps a beacon through the darkness. Maes followed with his gaze.

The rain fell on empty streets for an eternity after that.

"My wife," Maes began, "Gracia – she doesn't like what I do and my agents even less. But she likes you, Roy. And sometimes, I don't understand that. How did a good human like you become a mafia boss?"

Roy thought about Berthold Hawkeye, and how his daughter had found him one week after his death, three months after Chris Mustang's business would have collapsed if Roy didn't act.

Ethics were a small price to pay for his aunt and sisters' happiness.

"My train was late," said Roy, "so I had to get off at another stop."

Shame his line of work didn't let him consider if things could end differently if the timing had been right.

* * *

Roy sat at his fancy mafia boss desk with his wonderfully balanced fountain pen, pondering over his manuscript.

"If I want a publishing deal, do you think I'd need to get arrested first?" he asked the pictures of himself inside the photos of all his wanted posters. They were arranged around the city, but these replicas sat on his desk – the most dashing of audiences if he said so himself.

Fuery tumbled into the room.

"Boss!" he yelled.

Roy looked up. "Yes, Kain?"

Fuery took a deep breath. It purged the last of the colour from his flustered face. "There's cops outside the building."

* * *

Dear diary,

It's too loud. I wish prisons were more quiet.

They sentenced me. No surprise there. Ling says he's arranging a transfer agreement, so I suppose I'm trading my handcuffs for an arrest into a role as director of his coronation campaign. I wonder if my words betray my utter excitement for whatever he is scheming next.

The guards mention a Kimblee with a maximum security cell far away from this place. A solitary cell, huh ... I wonder how many more people had to die to get that one.

For the record, if anyone asks for my opinion? I think all he's doing in there is convincing himself he's right.

Until next time.

_Roy Mustang_

**Author's Note:**

> Please consider letting me know what you thought ;)  
> Thanks for reading!


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